


Where's My Mind?

by ebullience24



Series: Now I've Got A Bellyache [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a saint, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has An Eating Disorder, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is anorexic, Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Eating Disorder Awareness Week, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Adam Young (Good Omens), Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Self-Hating Crowley (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), it's more likely than you think, me projecting onto crowley?, vulnerable crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebullience24/pseuds/ebullience24
Summary: See, the thing is: Crowley is tall. His height had caused a few stares back in the days where the tallest man stood at five foot five. And, because of his height, one might be inclined to describe him as slender with spindly fingers and snake-hips. The pun is never intended on that last one but it stands true nonetheless. And Crowley would be likely to agree with these statements: he is tall and slender and spindly and snake-hipped.But what Crowley would be less likely to agree upon is the statement that he, Anthony J Crowley, is underweight.OR: Crowley has an eating disorder. Trigger Warnings now and at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Now I've Got A Bellyache [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648597
Comments: 36
Kudos: 353





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
>  \- Eating disorders.  
>  \- Self-esteem issues.  
>  \- Destructive behavior.   
>  \- Fasting.   
>  \- Anorexia.

> _"The saddest kind of sad is when your tears can’t even drop and you feel nothing.It’s like the world has just ended. You don’t cry. You don’t hear. You don’t see. You stay. For a second, the heart dies.”_

See, the thing is: Crowley is tall. His height had caused a few stares back in the days where the tallest man stood at five foot five. And, because of his height, one might be inclined to describe him as slender with spindly fingers and snake-hips. The pun is never intended on that last one but it stands true nonetheless. And Crowley would be likely to agree with these statements: he is tall and slender and spindly and snake-hipped. 

But what Crowley would be less likely to agree upon is the statement that he, Anthony J Crowley, is underweight. 

It’s a clear thing to see once it has been pointed out. The structure of Crowley’s face has always been based around harsh, clean lines. Although it borders on skeletal with his cheekbones and jaw so pronounced, so sharp. When Aziraphale cups his hands around Crowley’s face to bring the demon closer for a kiss, he feels as though he is holding glass. He doesn’t comment on it. 

Crowley’s long legs are thin and lithe. His walk is something that has been the topic of conversation for years and his swagger is more prominent, more distinct nowadays because his legs buckle from time to time because he isn’t strong enough to carry himself with the confident stride that he used to. When he and Aziraphale walk through St James’s Park, Crowley’s breathing is labored and his shaking fingers clutch at Aziraphale’s arm to steady himself. Aziraphale dreads to think at what would happen if he one day refused to help hold Crowley upright. He doesn’t comment on it. 

The clothes that Crowley wears have always been tight and scandalous; he dresses himself to look every inch the tempter that he is. Was. When he removes his jacket, in the bookshop, Aziraphale can see his ribcage through the thin material of his shirt. He can count every column of the demon’s spine. Crowley’s waist - no matter whether he presented as male or female or non-binary - has always been smaller than average, without even needing the boning of a corset to be so. But Crowley’s waist now is painfully slight and measures at a number that should be biologically impossible for someone to achieve. When Aziraphale hugs him, he loops his arms around Crowley’s waist far too easily. He can wrap his hands around Crowley’s waist and there’s only an inch that the angel’s skin doesn’t cover. Aziraphale always loosens his grip when he hugs Crowley so that it’s barely there (and might as well not be) because he fears that Crowley could shatter if Aziraphale hugged him or held him with the force that he longs to. He doesn’t comment on it. 

There are more symptoms that Aziraphale doesn’t allow himself to think on for long; Crowley’s burnished copper hair has become dull in color and thin, when he takes off his sunglasses his eyes are dark and bloodshot and there are dark circles underneath, the veins in his hands are too noticeable, he trembles, he’s colder than he usually is. Aziraphale would say that touching Crowley is like touching marble, but Crowley is far lighter and more delicate than marble. He is fine bone china, his bones are bound by broken glass and ice-cold water. 

Crowley looks like he is disappearing before Aziraphale’s eyes. He still doesn’t comment on it. 

It’s not that Aziraphale notices all of these things and doesn’t do anything about it. Aziraphale is, by nature, a healer. His whole purpose is to heal and to help. So, when he first started noticing Crowley losing weight, he took action in the small ways. He took Crowley only to restaurants or cafes that he knew Crowley had enjoyed in the past and he always encouraged Crowley to order something even when he claimed he wasn’t hungry. He invited him back to the bookshop more often so he could make sure that Crowley wasn’t going to take any pills or force himself to vomit anything that he may have eaten during the day. 

And Aziraphale didn’t comment on the physical aspects of Crowley’s weight loss full stop. He didn’t want to encourage it or acknowledge it or give it attention in any way shape or form. When he sees Crowley’s pants (that had always covered his skin like they had been painted on) slip down past his hips as they walk, he doesn’t say that it wouldn’t happen if Crowley were to eat more. He doesn’t say that Crowley looks thin (because Crowley is past looking thin by now. He looks _ill.)_ or frail or delicate, or that he looks like a strong gust of wind could knock him over. 

Instead, Aziraphale asks if he is alright. If he’s has a good day. If he’s tired or happy or excited about whatever they are going to do tomorrow. He asks Crowley how is day went, even if he hasn’t left Aziraphale’s side in a week. Even if they’ve been glued to the hip all day long, he still asks. And when Crowley responds in short, curt answers that he is fine and that all is good, Aziraphale will flick the kettle on and start talking about his day. He’ll say that he is tired and the day has been long but at least it’s all over now. He says that tomorrow can only be better and that a new day will only ever begin with sunlight. 

Because he wants Crowley to see how okay it is to be vulnerable. He wants to show that he can talk about his feelings in this pretty bubble that they had created for themselves and Crowley can, too. And Aziraphale hopes that someday Crowley will expand upon his answers to how his day went, because he’s seen Aziraphale do the same and knows that it’s okay. 

Aziraphale has never confronted Crowley about all of this. He knows only what he sees; he sees that Crowley refuses food, refuses to talk about himself, and that Crowley is severely underweight for someone of his height. He’s seen, when they sit down on one of the benches in St James’s Park, Crowley loop his fingers around his wrist and draws it all the way up to his elbow before he drops his hand back to his side, relief clear on his face. He’s seen Crowley run his fingers across his collarbone absentmindedly as he speaks and the action seems so natural to the demon that it looks like he does it without even realizing. 

Aziraphale isn’t an idiot. He _sees._ He listens to what Crowley tells him when Crowley doesn’t even open his mouth. He sees and he knows and he can tell. He just hasn’t got a confirmation and, without a confirmation, he isn’t entirely sure how to help. 

There’s only so much you can read about eating disorders before you have to refine your search to the type of eating disorder and the trauma that has been dealt to the fighter. 

* * *

They are dining in The Ritz. The pianist is still playing, the table cloth is still pristine, the other diners are still talking, and the wait staff are still waiting when _It_ happens. Which Aziraphale doesn’t really think is fair. 

Crowley and Aziraphale have been dining at The Ritz for so long that they have become somewhat regulars. They have their own table now. The wait staff know them by name, though they tend to refer to them as _‘the sweet gay couple that leave incredible tips and drink all the good wine’_ behind their backs. It was where they dined after they had saved the world, on the same night where they realized that this little world of theirs isn’t just something worth saving. It’s worth so much more than to be saved. 

The Ritz has sentimental value. But now there is one bad memory that has wormed its way through all the good ones, slashing a bloody red line to them. Aziraphale cannot help but resent it, just a little, because of that. 

They sit at their normal table, in their normal seats. Aziraphale on the left and Crowley on the right. They already ordered a bottle of champagne and the bottle, half empty by now, sits in its ice bucket with beads of water staining it. Two champagne flutes, full, sit in front of both the angel and the demon and an open menu sits in front of the angel, too. Nothing else sits in front of the demon. 

Aziraphale glances towards the empty space of Crowley’s side of the table where a menu should be. He turns back to his own, flips a page and shifts in his seat. “Crowley,” he says hesitantly. “I’m torn between choices. What were you thinking of having?”

Crowley is sprawled in his seat as usual, though he straightens up at the question and reaches to his champagne flute with a hand that trembles from low blood sugar. “Dunno,” he mumbles into his glass. “Not really all that hungry, to be honest.”

This is, for the majority of the time, how it goes. Aziraphale would normally respond with something like _‘Oh, but this pasta dish looks delicious. You should try that and I’ll order the duck and then we can share both of them. What do you think?’_ and Crowley will agree and he’ll eat, at most, three mouthfuls before pushing his plate to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale doesn’t do that tonight. He’ll come to regret that, later. But he hasn’t seen Crowley eat a thing in the past three days and they’ve been together for the whole of that time. And he can see Crowley physically struggling more so than usual and Aziraphale gets a sick, funny feeling in the pit of his stomach when he thinks of playing this game of charades that has become their routine when Crowley is so very clearly… Not well. 

He makes sure to keep his tone light and open; “My dear, you haven’t eaten all day. Surely there must be something that could take your fancy.”

Crowley is silent for a while. He drains the rest of his glass and puts it down on the table with more force than what is strictly necessary. The air between the two of them is tight and tense like they are both holding their breath. It’s so taut that it’s painful and it’s ready to snap. Aziraphale has no idea what _it_ actually is, but he doesn’t want to find out. He is about to say never mind and just order for himself when Crowley replies. “I’m a demon, remember? I don’t need food.”

And something snaps. But it doesn’t snap in Crowley like Aziraphale was expecting. It snaps in Aziraphale himself and he finds that that well of patience he has spent six thousand years using has suddenly dried up. 

“Well, that’s not true at all, is it? You might be a demon, Crowley, but your cooperation is human and it needs food. _You_ need food.” And he was about to add _‘And you need it now because you’re killing yourself and I can’t bear to watch the person I love most fade away to nothing’_ before he stopped himself. Aziraphale’s knowledge on eating disorders was limited but even he knew that Crowley’s brain would twist that into believing that Aziraphale was being negative towards him or that it was a good thing that Crowley looked so thin it looked like he was killing himself. 

Eating disorders made help feel like an attack and made negativity feel like a compliment. 

Crowley sat rigid in his chair now. He is drumming his fingers on the table and staring at it with the sort of intent gaze that one could only master if there had been a time where they had no eyelids. “Angel,” his voice is cold and measured, steady and calculating, “stop.”

Aziraphale sighs shortly. “I just want to make sure you’re alright-”

“I’m fine!” Crowley raises his voice and turns sharply to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale can practically see the fight and the fire leave his eyes and he refrains from holding out his arms to catch Crowley should he keel over from the energy he had used for his outburst. Crowley clenches his jaw and turns away and pushes back his chair to stand. “I’m fine,” he says quietly this time, more to himself than anyone else. He braces a hand on the table and pushes himself up. 

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. He remains seated, his grip around the menu tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He watches as Crowley walks away from the table and disappears around the corner of the restaurant without another word. Once he's sure he is alone, Aziraphale blows out a breath and lowers the menu. 

He looks up, expecting to see a sea of shocked faces of other diners and waiters and pianists. But there is nothing. They are all still eating, still working, still going about their day as if nothing has happened. It doesn’t feel right. To have the world feel so normal after something like what had just happened happens. 

The wheel is turning now. Aziraphale has spent so long trying to keep calm about it. He has spent so long pushing back on whatever illness was taking root in Crowley’s mind and now the illness is pushing back and Aziraphale isn’t sure what will come next.

He just hopes that Crowley will end up okay after it.

* * *

It's a ten minute walk to Crowley’s apartment in Mayfair from The Ritz and it is, to date, the longest ten minutes of Aziraphale’s life. Every step he takes made him think about all the things that Crowley could be doing, all the hurt he must be feeling. Aziraphale doesn’t want to become overbearing because he knows… He had read that these things were all about control, but he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he were to ever find out that Crowley had done something awful and Aziraphale hadn’t stopped it even though he had had the chance. 

Does he regret saying what he said at the table? Yes, he does. He shouldn’t have lost his temper and he shouldn’t have said that what Crowley had said about demons not needing food was untrue. Aziraphale doesn’t entirely regret the meaning of what he had said but he does regret the way he had said it. There were gentler approaches. 

Aziraphale hadn’t been to Crowley’s apartment much. The two of them, for whatever reason, preferred the bookshop for when they were together. With its soft chairs and many pillows and golden lighting, it was safe and homely. Crowley’s apartment, as expensive as it is, is bleak and empty - based around sleek contrasts and minimalism. Also, Aziraphale’s bookshop has a rather impressive wine collection. 

There is a snake door handle attached to Crowley’s door, which was how Aziraphale knew he is standing outside of the right one. For all Crowley resents his serpent form, he is very symbolic in the accessories he chose; the snake skin boots, the snake tattoo he had, and now even a snake door knocker. 

The door's ajar slightly but no light comes out. Aziraphale doesn’t bother to knock as he pushes it open and steps inside, clicking it shut behind him. He is standing in the beginning of a long hallway with high ceilings and tall windows. Not wanting to intrude further, Aziraphale doesn’t start checking all of the rooms and instead stays in the hallway where he starts calling out Crowley’s name. 

No reply. 

Aziraphale sighs. “My dear, I’m sorry for what happened but we can’t fix it if you don’t talk to me. Where are you?”

“The stupid plants aren’t behaving like they should,” Crowley replies from the other room, his voice hoarse. 

Aziraphale softens and takes Crowley’s reply as an invitation to enter the apartment fully. “Ah,” he says as he pokes his head round the door frame of the room Crowley scolds his plants in and finds the demon sitting against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. “What are they doing, then?” Aziraphale steps forward and starts to look at each plant individually, keeping his back to Crowley. 

“They’re not… Ngk, they’re being stupid.” 

The angel reaches a hand out to stroke one of the leaves. “Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t think they’re being stupid at all.”

 _This isn’t about the plants,_ Aziraphale tells himself. _This is… This is possibly the only way that Crowley can speak to you in a way that makes it easier for him. Be gentle._

Crowley sniffs. Aziraphale still doesn’t turn around to look at him, though he feels his heart give way a little at the sheer vulnerability in the sound. His demon had been through so much, _too_ much- “How would you know?” His voice is quieter, barely above a whisper. 

Aziraphale takes his time in answering. Each plant is cold to the touch but each leaf is so soft, so velvety. Some still have beads of water coating them from where, Aziraphale presumed, Crowley had watered them earlier _. If only he took as good care of himself as he did to his plants._ “Well,” Aziraphale begins in his story-teller voice, “I can see how beautiful they are. They brighten up the room, my dear. All the time and effort you must put into them to make them so strong, to grow them into these magnificent things from only seeds, is… Well, I don’t have the words for it, actually. I love how brave they are, considering they suffer through all of your rants and have survived the way you terrorize them for this long,” Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle at that. “And I don’t think that they’re stupid. I could never think that,” he turns to look at Crowley now but Crowley isn’t looking at him, “I think they’re a little bit afraid because of all they’ve been through. And I think that that’s why they aren’t behaving like they should.”

Silence. 

Vast, unending silence. The hums that come from the radiators are silenced, the rustle of leaves brushing against each other, of all the layers of Aziraphale’s clothes or even the sound of his shoes against the clean floors have been shunned into nothing. The wind doesn’t blow outside and even the birds don’t cry. It's complete silence.

Six thousand years of silence lay thick in the room. All the quiet moments that Aziraphale had banished with music and idle chatter, with the sound of a turning page or a roaring fire or a boiling kettle, have gathered here. 

After what could be two days or two minutes, Crowley looks up to Aziraphale and sighs shakily, running a hand through his hair and knocking his sunglasses askew. “’M not afraid.”

Aziraphale’s breathing hitches. He hasn’t expected Crowley to acknowledge that they aren’t talking about the plants anymore. “You know, I was afraid. At the airbase, at the end of the world. I was afraid when I got discorporated. I was afraid when I saw you driving the Bentley when it was on fire. I was afraid when we had lost the Antichrist, before we knew he was Adam. It’s okay.” Crowley doesn’t say anything. “What do you want to do now?” 

“Get absolutely _hammered-”_

“Crowley.”

The demon groans and rests his head against the wall. “I don’t know, angel. I’m fine, I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I don’t need to worry about you, I _want_ to worry about you. I want to be able to worry about you and care for you.” Aziraphale takes a step closer to Crowley. “If you’re not ready to talk yet or if you don’t want to talk, then fine. But promise me that you won’t… That you’re not going to talk because you don’t want to worry me.” Again, Crowley doesn’t say anything. He returns his gaze to the floor. “Are you going to come back to the shop with me?”

What Aziraphale _really_ wants is for Crowley to go back to the bookshop with him so Aziraphale can keep an eye on him, and so that Crowley can stay there for weeks or months until they figure this thing out together. But Aziraphale doesn’t say that aloud because he doesn’t want to take the control away from Crowley and he doesn’t want the demon to feel like he needs to be babysat. 

Whatever option Crowley chooses, whether to go back with Aziraphale or stay at his own apartment, has to be his own. And Aziraphale has to trust him to look after himself and not do anything reckless. 

“Actually,” Crowley begins, “I think I’m going to stay here and go to bed.”

Aziraphale’s heart sinks but he doesn’t let it show. He nods. “Alright. Well, if you do want to come around soon, you know that I’ll be in.”

Crowley nods. Aziraphale walks towards the door, each step he takes another hit to his heart, another voice screaming at him to stay. To help. He can’t help, yet. This was something that Crowley has to admit to on his own before Aziraphale could even begin to help him. Aziraphale closes Crowley’s door behind him and rests against it, closing his eyes, for a moment. 

He was just going to go to sleep. That’s what Crowley had said. He was going to go to bed and Aziraphale trusts him to do that. He trusts him. Of _course_ he did. So, he's going to walk away and go back to the bookshop and trust that Crowley will go to bed and come back when he's ready. 

So long as that doesn't mean sleeping for a century again, like Crowley had done all those years before.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> \- Eating disorders.  
> \- Destructive behavior.  
> \- Unspecified anxiety attacks.  
> \- Self harm.  
> \- Self-esteem issues.  
> \- Fasting.  
> \- Anorexia.  
> \- Disordered eating thoughts.  
> \- Slight glamorization of disordered eating, from the thoughts of person with said disorder.  
> \- Excessive amounts of drinking and flirting with someone intoxicated.
> 
> (I'm sure there are many historical inaccuracies and I'm also sure that I have completely abused what happened in Speakeasy's. But this fic is more for emotion and my own selfish projection onto Crowley then anything else, so I'm sorry.)

“I’m not hungry,” Crawly turned his head away like the child he had never got to be when Aziraphale approached him with an apple. Aziraphale dropped the hand that held the apple down to his side and huffed. Crawly glared at the fruit and clenched his jaw hard enough for it to nearly snap at the lump at the back of his throat that appeared when he looked at it. The infamous apple - the thing that symbolized humanity’s damnation. 

All Crawly’s doing, of course.

“It’s food,” Aziraphale frowned. 

“Yes, angel,” Crawly snapped, perhaps more harshly then he had intended to. “I know.” 

“I, um, couldn’t find anything else. That looked edible.”

“I know.” 

Uncomfortable silence. Crawly shifted from where he was sat, leaning against the trunk of a tree that wasn’t, mercifully, an apple tree. Outside the gates of Eden, Adam and Eve were preparing for their first night outside of the garden. And, inside the garden, an angel and a demon were preparing for the first night of a job that suddenly felt very long, very difficult, and very lonely. 

Crawly had been lonely for a while. Somehow, he was still trying to get used to the emptiness between his bones and his soul where _something_ should be. 

Aziraphale, the angel, was standing above him. He had been for a while. Crawly wasn’t intimidated because whatever punishment Aziraphale could give him, Crawly rightfully deserved. He had just damned humanity, cursed it, sentenced it to eternal suffering. He was the bad guy - even Hell wasn’t enough of a punishment for all he had done. He should know.

Hell wasn’t painful. It wasn’t hot and the people didn’t carry pitchforks. Hell was crowded, Hell was cold, Hell was loud. It wasn’t a place of punishment physically. It was a slow, steady, aching mental torture. Hell was a place that broke the already broken.

“Do you really not want it?” Aziraphale asked, his voice soft and gentle. 

Crawly shrugged. He wasn’t hungry - he doubted he could even feel hunger after everything that had happened. But he got the feeling that he wouldn't take the apple even if he was hungry. Why should he eat? Why should he deserve to eat food? Why did someone as… Why did someone like him get food? He was the bad guy, the villain. The fucking Serpent of Eden. He was wretched and disgusting and downright _fucking_ awful. 

He clenched his hand into a fist behind his back, his nails digging into his skin. He wanted control. _Control, control, control._ If he would just stop thinking- “No,” Crawly gasped, his words hoarse. 

Aziraphale surveyed him with an up-and-down glance and a tilted head.He nodded and reached up to balance the apple on a tree branch and, by some small miracle, the fruit stayed there. Crawly shifted slightly so there was room for the angel to sit down if he wanted to. 

He did. 

“Do you think they’ll be alright?” Aziraphale pondered aloud after a beat or two of silence. 

Grateful for the distraction, Crawly sighed. “I don’t think She would go to the hassle of creating all of this if She was going to make them not-alright on their first proper night.” 

Aziraphale pulled a face as if to say _‘Oh, I hadn’t thought about it like that’_ and hummed. “Yes. The Great Plan is ineffable, of course.”

Crawly rolled his eyes. He was to be stuck on Earth with an angel who had an irrational fondness for that word, wasn’t he? “Whatever you say.”

The angel didn’t reply. The two settled in for the first night of many, a thousand unspoken questions in their heads of what was to come, an endless and open sky before them, and an apple resting, uneaten, above them. Crawly closed his eyes.

* * *

Crowley was as close to Jesus as a demon could possibly get to a child of the Almighty. She stayed for longer than necessary after the crucification and clutched the fabric of her veil tighter. Aziraphale was still there, too, though standing slightly behind Crowley. He placed his hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling around the bones reassuringly. 

Part of that reassurance, Crowley would never tell, came from taking some morbid satisfaction at the fact that the bones were there and were prominent enough to hold. 

“Come on, Cra-Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “It’s time that we left.”

“I’ve nowhere to be,” Crowley responded tightly and quickly and sharply, never removing her eyes from the scene before her. She wasn’t blinking nearly enough as she should be (blinking was still something that was slightly foreign to her. She didn’t quite understand the point) but, thankfully, nobody had commented on it. Nobody was really around _to_ comment on it. 

“It’s getting dark.”

“Isn’t it always?”

Aziraphale sighed patiently. “You know there’s nothing you can do for him now-”

“I know.”

“And that, even if there was some way you could save him, you wouldn’t be able to. We can’t interfere with the Great Plan, Crowley. This is just how it’s meant to be.” Crowley chose not to respond. Aziraphale continued; “If you come back with me, I think I have some bread left over from yesterday. You could take some home with you?”

For some reason, the offering of food made Crowley’s cold blood burn hotter than the rivers of Hell. She didn’t want food. She didn’t need food. Food was disgusting and selfish and disappointing and Crowley loathed herself for even thinking about it. _You’re the Serpent of Eden. You Fell. What makes you think you deserve such indulgent human treats?_

She turned to face the angel, her serpent eyes non-blinking and harsh. “How could you suggest… _that_ right now?” Even the word _‘food’_ tasted wrong in her mouth. Crowley couldn’t bring herself to say it without getting a mouthful of bile. 

“I don’t know what you mean, my dear.”

The casual affection didn’t register. Crowley could feel her hands shaking between the folds of the fabric of her clothes, could feel her mind quivering under the force - the _weight_ \- of the threat that everything posed. Everything, of course, being the action of actually eating. Of holding anything edible. Eating had caused the curse of humanity - something Crowley had caused. Because of eating. Because of _her._

_You don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve it._

_Control control control control control._

Crowley allowed one of her nails, hidden under her outfit, to snap into the talons and the claws that she so often hid. She maintained eye contact with Aziraphale as she raked her claw around her wrist, creating a thin and perfect loop of black blood. She breathed out evenly as the familiar sting silenced what she wanted silenced. 

She swallowed and managed to smile. “Nothing. Never mind.” 

“Are you-”

“Perfectly fine,” Crowley had started to walk away. “Fancy a drink, angel?” 

If a strong breeze were to happen at that exact moment, anyone who passed by, and Aziraphale, would see Crowley’s arm free of the cloak of fabric she wore. They’d see what they thought was a bracelet gracing her slender wrist, upon first glance. Upon second glance, however, they would see a cut slicing through the skin of her skeletal wrist that was already clotting and beginning to scar. 

But there wasn’t a strong breeze. And so an angel and a demon walked steadily to the closest place that would sell something exceptionally strong without realizing that something was wrong.

* * *

The fourteenth century was a century that had the majority of the population walking around like wraiths.

On more than one occasion, Crowley had been confused for a patient. Doctors had come up to him in their strange little masks, demanding he take a seat or find a hospital before he collapsed. Crowley then had to begin the arduous ordeal of explaining that no, he wasn’t ill. Not physically, anyway. 

For the first time in, well, forever, Crowley was spending most of his time with Aziraphale. He kept finding excuses to seek out the angel, to make sure that he hadn’t somehow contracted the bloody plague of all things, or to make sure that he wasn’t in trouble with Heaven for all the miracles he was performing to keep people from suffering too much throughout the Black Death. 

And with spending time with Aziraphale came spending time performing a variety of leisurely human activities. They drank, they talked. They played a lot of dice games and told each other stories. They dined, too. 

They were dining tonight. 

Crowley was watching himself through a piece of polished lead. He was watching himself and… seeing himself. He could see why so many people were confusing him with a plague patient. His skin was pale and thin. His face was cadaverous, his eyes sunken, his lips chapped. His eyes, though not often on show, were bright and glassy - not from a fever but from the mindless enjoyment he took from knowing he looked like he had escaped from one of the coffins that were in too high of a demand. He count trace all the veins under his skin and feel the cold blood moving sluggishly through them.

His clothes had started slipping from his shoulders, his waist and hips. Wearing women’s clothing had started to become a necessity rather than a personal preference - they were always tailored to fit a more delicate frame. 

He staggered through the streets. When he was sure that nobody was around to see, Crowley used the walls of back alleys to pull himself forward. He had started to bind his knees in thick bandages in a vain attempt to stop them from buckling. 

His hair was long and often pulled back with a thin piece of black ribbon. A few weeks ago, he had tugged his hair out of the restraint of the ribbon and ran his fingers through it to straighten out some of the tangles. Crowley hadn’t expected to see the strands of burnished copper hair on his hands and floor afterward and now he had abused his demonic powers into stopping anymore of his hair from falling out. 

After he had dressed quickly, Crowley started to walk to whatever Inn Aziraphale had chosen for the two of them. He had decided that he would try something. He would try to eat something - if only to stop people trying to usher him into churches so the priest could pray for him in his last days. 

Aziraphale was already sat at a long wooden table when Crowley walked through the doors. He walked over, using the table as a crutch, and flopped himself down on one of the benches opposite Aziraphale. 

Crowley rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. The room was spinning. 

Maybe he _did_ have the plague. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked after Crowley hadn’t made a move to sit upright or lift his head or open his eyes. Crowley mumbled something under his breath. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” 

“Food,” Crowley rushed the word out of his mouth to chase away the sick taste of stomach acid that rose with it. “What’re we having?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale brightened. “Well…”

Crowley tuned out. His knowledge of food was limited to apples, wines, and… a few other meals that he had had in his lifetime. Bread. He decided to just pick whatever was the easiest to say on the menu, ordered, and waited impatiently whilst drumming his fingers on the wooden table. If Aziraphale noticed anything unusual about the demon’s behavior, he didn’t comment on it. Crowley was grateful. 

The food arrived and Crowley felt his mouth turn as dry as furnished bone at the sight of it. What he had ordered looked to be some sort of mushrooms coated in gravy, boiled within an inch of their lives, and surrounded by a dark green vegetable thing. 

When Crowley said his knowledge of food was limited, he wasn’t joking. 

It smelled like mud after rain. And metallic sweat. And salt. Crowley held his breath to keep himself from dry heaving at the table. 

Aziraphale was watching him. Crowley couldn’t remember how many times, exactly, the angel had seen him eat but he knew it was a low number. Below ten. 

Possibly below seven.

 _You can either eat the disgusting food,_ Crowley told himself. _Or you’ll be tossed into another church, blessed again, until this is all over. You’ll die either way._

Crowley picked up one of the green things, brought it to his mouth, chewed and chewing was a strange thing. He swallowed and immediately went for his jug of cheap ale. 

“How is it?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly.

Slamming his empty jug now, Crowley nodded. “Great, fine. Taste’s like a rat’s arse.”

Aziraphale nodded grimly. “The English were always behind on their cuisine. You know, I hear Italy is a good place for restaurants.”

“Really?” Crowley feigned interest as he started eating again. All of his focus was centered around finishing his plate and not gagging because of it. It was more work than it needed to be. 

He managed to eat another few mouthfuls before he stopped and pushed the plate away. He made a quick excuse to Aziraphale and dashed back home, where he spent hours in his uncomfortable bed staring at the damp that had gathered in his ceiling and trying his best to ignore the sharp pains that came from his stomach and the rush of guilt that threatened to render him unconscious whenever he thought of eating.

Of ever eating again.

He threw up three times that night despite his best efforts not to. And it was only then, as he heaved into a tin bucket he had miracled up, shaking from exertion and crying from failing at the most simplest of tasks and hating himself more than he ever had, Crowley decided that he was going to try to start eating more. 

He shouldn’t have to be sick every time he ate out with Aziraphale - every time they dined. 

The only beautiful thing about his emaciated, empty lifestyle was the beauty of corpses. The silent hunger of death. 

Crowley was immortal. A demon. He was cursed to live forever. 

He didn’t want to spend forever chasing after something that he could never fully achieve.

* * *

Crowley spent a lot of the fourteenth century with his head in a bucket as he got used to eating. But he did get used to eating and he… Although he didn’t come to enjoy it, he came to accept it. 

Until he didn’t. 

In the early 1600s, Crowley was in Hell. Literal Hell. He was reporting in person for a change. 

“And although Shakespeare has brought around general joy and conformity and all the other nonsense that Upstairs raves about, I’m happy to say that his bad puns are keeping enough people agitated for us to not need to be too grouchy,” Crowley was saying as he hoped from foot to foot. He could move so quickly now. And think faster and act faster and just overall _be faster._ He had so much energy that sometimes he couldn’t breathe. He had so many things he wanted to see and do and try with Aziraphale and the humans and he didn’t actively seek food like the angel did, but he would appreciate and eat it if it was put in front of him. 

The self-loathing was dealt with by drinking excessively and trying to read all the books that Aziraphale recommended. And there was the occasional dramatic monologue whenever he was alone but, well, Crowley was living in the time of Shakespeare. What else was there to do? 

Beezlebub glared and cocked their head to the side. “What’s got you so chirpy?”

“Oh,” Crowley shrugged with an offhand wave. “Weather’s nice. People ‘re out. Good day for temptation is it not?” He had also started sticking coins to the ground and watching from a distance when people tried to pick them up. Nothing was quite so fun as that. “And the, uh, Other Side has been-”

“The Other Side?” Hastur piped up from behind Crowley. “What do you know of them.”

 _Fuck,_ Crowley thought. _You just had to go and speak._ Crowley stuttered for a moment. “Uh, well, um. See. The thing _is,”_ he spread his hands, “small place, right? Earth. Can’t really go too far without hearing about things.”

“What thingzzzz,” Beelzebub glared, “have you heard?”

 _Retreat, retreat, retreat, retreat. You stupid, senseless, worthless, idiotic, disgusting piece of- If they end up hurting Aziraphale, it’ll be all your fault. They could be sending demons up there right now to smite him with Hellfire and you’re not even close enough to smell smoke._ Crowley stuttered again and shook his head to get rid of the thoughts. He was sure that if he somehow played his cards right, he could ensure Aziraphale’s safety. 

_But what if you can’t? If it’s too late already. What will you do?_

_Eternity is a long time._

Crowley stopped moving. The room was spinning. Everything sounded like it was coming from underwater. Hell reeked of Sulfur and sweat and stale bodies. It stank of smoke and burning hair. Rotting flesh. There were so many people, demons, behind the walls of Beelzebub’s office. All moving together, all going to the same place, all thinking the same thoughts. Crowley was one of them. Nothing he did mattered. There was no point to anything. He would never be able to control Hell if they somehow got to Aziraphale or Earth or any of the little human children that liked to try on Crowley’s glasses and tie knots into his hair. 

He could hear the eerie mumble of the foot traffic outside. Deep and slow and droning, it was there only to insult the quiet. It sounded a lot like: _You’re a failure. You’re disgusting. You deserve nothing and that’s still too much._

His bones felt like they were fusing together. He was sure someone was still talking to him. 

_Control control control control control control control control control control control control control._

There wasn’t a way for him to unleash a claw and trace the scar on his wrist with it like he had done all the times before when he needed to harness himself. Control things. Not with everyone watching him.

Was he speaking? He should speak. He should come up with an excuse to save Aziraphale. He should never have opened his damn mouth in the first place.

He felt sick. He was so _stupid-_

No, no. 

He didn’t feel sick. 

He was sick. Physically sick. 

Crowley had half the mind to miracle a bucket in his hands as he felt it rising in his throat and heaved into it, his eyes watering from behind his sunglasses. If Hell got their hands on Aziraphale, Crowley would never forgive himself. Death wouldn’t be enough of a punishment and neither would torture; he would need to burn and then have his ashes doused in Holy Water and even that wasn’t enough. He deserved to have each of his bones removed from his body and slowly dipped in Holy Water and sewn back into his body. He deserved so much of the so little that it was unfathomable. 

He certainly didn’t deserve food. Or any small human delight that came with living up there.

Once he was sure that all he was doing was dry heaving, Crowley took a second to breathe and gather his thoughts and miracled the bucket out of existence as if it had never happened. He cleared his throat and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ugh, sorry, I- don’t know what hap-”

“Upstairs,” Beelzebub’s voice cut through. “We were talking about that.”

“Right.” Crowley blinked uselessly. “Right. Uh, nothing interesting. Actually. Jus’ that the angel, uh Aziraphale, was it? He’s developed a habit for racing and has been seen by my agents. A lot. Down there. At the races.” 

None of that was true. Crowley didn’t even have agents. But it was so far from the truth that Crowley was sure that they would never be able to see the truth from it. And he had said truth too much.

Crowley nodded to himself and started making his way to the exit. “Best be off, then. Beelzebub it was a pleasure as always. Dagon, Hastur, Ligur.”

Without waiting for a formal reply or answer or dismissal, Crowley clicked the door shut and started Hell’s shuffle to the exit. 

And when he got back up to the world, and to Aziraphale, he would revert back to his old habits. He wouldn’t eat in the days or weeks that came after his trip to Hell. 

Centuries later, he still didn’t. Crowley felt like he would never eat again - how could he possibly, after experiencing the fear that had came when he had almost lost Aziraphale? When he knew what would happen if he were to ever lose control like that again? 

It was safer to just… Not eat at all.

* * *

The dresses were thin and long in the roaring 20s. They were scandalous and show-stopping and they were a statement. They defined an era, really. 

They were also incredibly helpful at hiding rib cages and spinal columns and hip bones and thigh gaps.

Crowley was dressed that day in a black dress that was cut just below her knee. The material was thin and soft and clung to her frame when the wind pushed at it, which wasn’t often. The dress was mercifully shapeless and covered in black beads and silver beads that looked like scales in better light. She wore a thin black bracelet to cover the scars on her wrist (they were in the same place each time that it had become deep enough to create a ridge) and a thin black chain around her neck. Her make up was bold, her hair curled. She was ready to go to one of New York’s popular speakeasy’s with… 

Not with the angel. She hadn’t spoken to him since the incident involving Holy Water all those years ago, and she had moved to New York as soon as she had heard about the over the top parties that they were having so there was no chance she would bump into him. And she didn’t want to after what had happened. Which she still thought was ridiculous - Aziraphale had known Crowley for nearly six thousand years and he still couldn’t trust her enough. Just because she was a demon. 

Well, she wasn’t sure if that was the reason exactly. But it certainly felt right. 

Eating had been harder. After that rejection. Even eating the barest minimum, like a small biscuit to have with a morning black coffee, had been both a mental and a physical struggle. Crowley had felt like throwing up every time she tried to eat and had wanted to set her soul alight with Hellfire and put it out with Holy Water whenever she thought about going anywhere near food. 

She hadn’t drank anything for five months. And then she had had to drink a rather impressive amount of water because she was close to discorporating from dehydration and Crowley really didn’t want to have to explain to Downstairs why she had allowed her body to become so damaged in the first place. 

She was drinking now. Tonight, especially, she would be drinking excessively. 

There wasn’t a real reason as to why Crowley had chosen tonight - a raining and miserable Tuesday in the middle of May - to get absolutely pissed out of her head drunk, _roaring_ drunk, and she was of the firm belief that she didn’t need a reason to cause mayhem with drunken deviance. She was a demon, after all. The scum of the Earth. 

Crowley was walking to the speakeasy with more saunter in her hips than was needed - it was more for balance than seduction but the looks she got from the people passing by were… fine enough. She didn’t care very much. 

About anything. What was the worse they could do? Kill her? She’d have a new body by the end of the month and it would only encourage her to pursue her dramatic weight loss with more vigor.

“Hey gorgeous,” someone whistled as she walked past. “Wha’s a thing like you doing walking alone this time of night?”

“Ignoring you,” Crowley bit back and didn’t even bother to turn to stare at the rude stranger. She could see the entrance to the speakeasy, built into the wall of an empty office block. The door had been disguised as a very important person’s personal study to keep authorities away from it but all one had to do was walk past briefly to smell the overwhelming scent of alcohol and cigarettes wafting up from behind the door. 

It was the perfect place to do some casual demonic work. A temptation here, a little annoyance there. Crowley liked to cause havoc at speakeasy’s just to watch the agitation rise - in such a small space when people were trying their hardest to be inconspicuous, creating petty dramas was like lighting an indoor firework. 

Crowley walked up to the door and kicked at it twice with the heel of her shoe. There were five people drifting around the entrance, all looking suspicious in their own right. She was sure that some wanted to get access to the speakeasy but they didn’t know how to, some were looking to sell cheap drugs imported from some faraway land, and some were simply drunk and alone and frightening because of it. 

“Wha’dya want?” Came a gruff voice from inside. 

Crowley raised a trembling hand to grip at the door as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. She swallowed dryly and rested her head against the cool brick. When was the last time she had eaten? She couldn’t remember. Two months ago, maybe. She hadn’t even been eating those little biscuit things that Americans liked to call cookies.

 _What makes you think you deserve it? You fought with the angel. It’s not enough that you Fell. You’ve just got to go and break every heavenly thing you’ve ever come across, haven’t you?_ Why _are you so_ broken? 

The thin bracelet on Crowley’s wrist was a cold, flimsy reminder. 

“It’s me,” Crowley kept her voice light and sing-song like, hoping that it would cover the slight quiver that had become semi-permanent since she had stopped eating. “Open the door, quickly. People are looking.” People weren’t looking. But it was cold and Crowley was cold-blooded and was so malnourished that body heat couldn’t even be called a fleeting memory and she wanted to get inside. 

The door creaked open and Crowley stepped over the threshold, kicking it shut behind her. She shed her woolen coat like a snake shedding its skin, shook out her curled hair, and held out her coat to the man who had opened the door. “Take it to the backroom. I’ll see you later.” 

Whatever happened to Crowley’s exceptionally expensive wool and silk designer coat after she tossed it to the man was something that even the Almighty wasn’t sure of. That night was doomed from the start.

She walked through to the main part of the speakeasy, the bar, and nearly walked into a wall of sweating skin and dancing and sweet, strong whiskey. Crowley pushed her way towards the bar, ignoring the way her dress clung more to the skin of strangers than to her own. She leaned against the bar to watch the crowd and started drinking whatever was in reach; if it didn’t belong to her then who cared? Really? Who _cared_ about anything?

The rush of alcohol to her system was a bitter, hot shock. She was sure that, if she were human, she would have been dead by now. Who could survive on alcohol and cigarettes alone without any food at all, except a who who wasn’t so much a who as a what? 

Crowley liked to think of herself as a thing. Things had a concrete definition. People didn’t. Crowley liked to define herself as difficult and disgusting and rude and bad and unworthy and disrespectful and harsh and selfish, and thin. 

By her fifth glass of whatever was on the counter of the bar, her vision was starting to blur. But it was blurring in a slow, soft, pretty way. Like when the distance is hazy with the heat of the sun. She was warm now, like she had been carefully burnt all over. Her hands were still shaking every time she wove her hands around a glass - they looked like butterflies encased in her skin. Crowley propped her elbow up on the counter to rest her head in her hand and slowly felt her eyes slip close. 

“Oi,” Crowley jerked awake and snapped her eyes up to the person, though they would be unable to see the fire roaring there through her dark glasses. “Who’re you with?”

Crowley allowed her eyes to shut again as she contemplated whether her self-hatred was prominent enough to justify purposefully getting a sexually transmitted disease from this man. “Myself,” she mumbled, so quiet that she could barely hear it over her own dull heartbeat. 

She didn’t think she was even hungry anymore. She just thought that she was… numb. Someone had sandpapered all of her emotions. 

The man snaked a sweating hand around Crowley’s waist. She could feel him run it along every one of her ribs and she silently counted them in her head. “Now _that,”_ his voice was against her neck, “I just _can’t_ believe.”

“What I say isn’t for you to believe,” Crowley said just as quietly. “And I see no reason for you to believe me considering you don’t even know my name.”

He was grinding his hips against her, his lips damp as he pressed them against the hollow of her collarbone. “Names are for important people.”

Crowley decided that she liked this man. 

She was about to allow him to lead her out to one of the bathrooms, her mind hazy and her eyes glossy and she wasn’t even completely sure what the man looked like except for the fact that he had a voice like sour honey and skin like flower petals, when the next thing that she knew, Crowley was standing outside the speakeasy, the cold air hitting her like bullets and an oily sickness in the pit of her stomach. 

There was a wall in front of her. Crowley braced her arms against it and bent at the waist as she tried to control her breathing through the waves of nausea that were hitting her. She coughed. 

“I mean, _really,_ Crowley. What were you thinking?” 

Distantly, she heard the snap of fingers and her shivering body was encased in something soft and warm and heavy. A fur coat. Crowley went to pull it closer when she gagged instead. 

“He could have been anyone! He could’ve been from the opposite side, you know, and you were just going to let him drag you away when you’re in such a state!”

“Angel?” Crowley croaked, still braced against the wall and bent at the waist and her eyes still shut. Her skin was too tight around her bones. She didn’t care. 

“These things aren’t really my thing but I heard that someone that matches your description was walking around New York and, well, I didn’t think it could possibly be you because I was sure that you had more _sense_ than that-”

“Angel.”

“-But apparently I was wrong! If I had been a second later, anything could have happened. I sorted that… that _pig_ out as best I could but you must be more careful. _Please.”_

“Angel.” 

“What?” 

Crowley stood with a wince and turned to face Aziraphale. “Shut up.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I realize that we didn’t exactly leave last time off on good footing but can we at least try- Wait, what’s wrong?”

Her heart quickened. Her blood felt like oil staining the insides of her veins. “Nothing’s wrong.”

The angel squinted. “Why do you look so… Has Downstairs done something to you?”

“What? Angel, don’t be paranoid.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were raking over Crowley’s body. He could probably see bruises beginning to form on her skin from the weight of the fur coat alone. How had he found her in New York? How did he know she had been about to do something reckless? Crowley was supposed to save Aziraphale, not the other way round.

_You can’t even get that right._

“You don’t look… right, Crowley.” His voice was so tender that Crowley could die. His eyes were wet. 

Crowley shook her head and moved to walk past Aziraphale, back to her apartment in uptown New York. “Stop worrying about me,” she said darkly. “And leave me alone.”

She didn’t turn back to see the heartbroken expression on Aziraphale’s face. And she refused to see him until the 60s, which was another heartbreak altogether. You’d think Crowley would be better at dealing with them by now.

* * *

Crowley wakes up with a gasp and there are sixty centuries painted across his bedroom.

He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and rubs at his eyes furiously. When he lowers his hands to his lap and lets his sunglasses fall back onto his face, the memories are gone but his heart still races. Crowley looks at his hands, starkly pale against the black covers of his duvet, and isn’t sure whether he expects to see the healthy non-shaking hands he had had in the late fourteenth century or the weak, trembling, trapped butterfly hands of the roaring twenties. 

What he sees is something in between. He’s okay with that. 

Pushing himself upright, Crowley leans against his headboard and tries to remember what lead to… Well, this. 

_What happened, what happened, what happened, what happened._

His sleeve has been rucked up in his sleep. Crowley pulls it down harshly and hard enough for him to wonder how the seams are still attached before his gaze has the time to longer over the deep scar there. 

“Fuck,” Crowley swears aloud in his empty apartment as soon as realization hits him. The Ritz, with Aziraphale. The angel, asking questions. And Crowley, who has every possible answer to any possible question but only to any possible question that he could come up with. In Crowley’s opinion, questions shouldn’t exist. People shouldn’t be capable of asking them.

All his life, questions had caused nothing but destruction and ruin. He doesn’t want anymore. 

Aziraphale had told him to eat - that he needed food. Whether he was aware of it or not, Aziraphale had taken away Crowley’s control, if only for a moment. And put him on the spot. And Crowley had been so afraid that, after all this time, his biggest secret might get found out. He had been so afraid that his control would be taken away or Aziraphale would be mad or disgusted, rightly so, and Crowley would discorporate somehow and get sent straight back to Hell.

_So, what happens now?_

Crowley swallows thickly and pulls himself out of bed. He’s still dressed in what he wore to The Ritz. The clothes are loose and he’s tired but his hands aren’t shaking and his heart is steady. _What happens now?_

He isn’t sure.

How long has it been? Crowley has an odd tendency to fall asleep for disgusting amounts of time. He looks to the window and rips open his curtains, the material whispering against the steel pole, and the sun stabs warmly into his eyes. London looks the same, except for the sun. His phone is in the pocket of his jeans and a quick Google search says that it’s merely only a week later. 

_What happens now?_

Does he call Aziraphale? He wants to, more than anything. He wants to call the angel and go to the bookshop and lounge around on that old couch all day until night twirls around and candles are lit and music is playing and they’re drinking steadily and the only questions that are asked are _‘Do you want some more?’_ and the only answers that are needed are _‘Yes, please.’_

But, realistically, Crowley knows that that won’t happen. Not yet. 

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to explain the reasons behind his need for control because there are no reasons behind it. He doesn’t want to have to… explain anything because there isn’t a thing worthy of an explanation. 

He’s confused, he’s hurt, he’s so, so tired. 

Why now? Why did Aziraphale tell him that he needs food now? Why not back at that speakeasy or in the fourteenth century or at the crucification or in the early 1600s? What changed? 

Crowley’s phone is dialing the number to Aziraphale’s bookshop. On the fourth ring, the angel picks up. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is distant over the static of the line, but it’s bright and cheery and something in Crowley’s mind solidifies. “Is that you?”

He nods despite the fact that Aziraphale can’t see him. “Yeah,” Crowley croaks and clears his throat. “’S me.”

“Oh,” Crowley can picture Aziraphale’s smile. “Good. I was getting worried after-”

“I know.”

“It’s been a week, my dear.”

“I know.”

Crowley isn’t sure if he’s crying or not. He doesn’t cry. Why is he calling Aziraphale? Why is he on the phone with him, right now? What’s the point to this? _Stop bothering the angel. He wants nothing to do with you._

“I’m sorry,” Crowley gasps and he’s sure that he’s crying now. He heaves in a breath and swallows and counts to ten _. Hang up and leave Aziraphale alone. Why would he ever want to talk to you, after all you’ve done?_

“Whatever for?”

He’s leaning against the wall and clutching at his phone with both hands. He doesn’t reply and he keeps trying to even out his breathing. _There’s no coming back from this,_ Crowley keeps telling himself. _You can’t keep using the facade you’ve been using. The mask is getting old._

_Control control control control control._

_The mask is getting old._

Crowley clenches his jaw and bites his cheek. He breathes out, slowly. He doesn’t reply. 

Aziraphale does. “My dear, I’m not understanding. Do you want to come by the bookshop so we can-”

“No,” Crowley interrupts abruptly and hates himself that much more for doing so. “I don’t know. I think I’m good here.”

He can picture Aziraphale frowning and blinking and tilting his head in that way of his. “Good?” He questions. Crowley hums. “Well, if you’re sure you are then I believe you. How about we go to St James’s tomorrow afternoon? A customer came into the bookshop on Wednesday and I’ve been waiting to tell you about it.”

Crowley smiles briefly. “Sounds good, angel.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says. “I-I’ll see you then.”

The line is cut off. Crowley has until tomorrow afternoon to pull himself together. 

With a click of his fingers, his apartment is forced into darkness. Crowley tugs his glasses off, folds them, and hugs them close to his chest. He closes his eyes and focuses on keeping each breath even and steady and calm. 

Even and steady and calm. 

Even and steady and calm.

Even, and steady, and calm. 

There’s a hot chocolate next to him that Crowley thinks he may have miracled up by accident. He makes himself take a sip and his hands shake a lot but he manages it. And then the hot chocolate is placed back on the floor and he closes his eyes and his heart feels like it’s made of iron. 

It’s the easiest to breathe and the lightest that it’s been in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you so much for all your encouragement so far and please comment!! They are the Aziraphale to my Crowley <3
> 
> Love you all,  
> Xoxo


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> \- Eating Disorders.  
> \- Anorexia.  
> \- Destructive behaviour.  
> \- Self hatred.  
> \- Graphic descriptions of violence and injuries.  
> \- Self-harm.  
> \- Mentions of suicide.  
> \- Referenced sexual assault/sexual favours performed in wrong presence of mind.  
> \- Unhealthy coping mechanisms.  
> \- Health problems associated with eating disorders.  
> \- Implied/referenced anxiety attacks and depression.

One of Crowley’s hidden talons is resting heavily atop the deeply marred skin of his wrist like a broken flower resting softly atop silent waters. He keeps it there to serve as a reminder, or a sickening comfort. He experiences the same nervous excitement at having something so sharp so close to his skin as an addict does when a needle is close to a vein, or an alcoholic when they grab the neck of a bottle, or a murderer when they feel their victim’s pulse slowly, slowly, slowly, start to lull. 

It feels like small, thin holes have been punctured into his drowning lungs. It feels like his skin is too tight and he’s slowly releasing some of the pressure. It feels like taking a gasping breath after holding it for so long. 

Crowley lifts his finger slightly so that only the tip of his talon is resting, though balancing is probably a better word for it, on his skin. He could press down now, hard, and pierce his skin all the way to his bone. He could let the talon stay there, blood bubbling up from the pierced wound, and then drag the tip of it to the left of his wrist and then to the right of his wrist. Peeling the skin away like peeling a piece of fruit. 

He imagines wrapping a clean hand around his bone and tugging it out of his arm. He imagines the rest of his body falling apart like a house of cards. 

There’s a hand on his knee, and Crowley stops imagining. “You seem very distant today, my dear. Is something wrong?”

With a suppressed sigh, Crowley retracts his talon and wraps cold, long fingers around the scar of his wrist instead. He squeezes. “Nah,” he answers Aziraphale and sprawls a little more in the bench they’re sharing in the middle of St James’s Park. 

Aziraphale looks at him from the corner of his eye. Crowley keeps his gaze trained forward, facing the duck pond with a newfound intensity that is far too intent for a duck pond, and clenches his jaw. The angel’s shoulders drop and he begins fiddling with the cuff of his coat. “I should’ve bought food for them but it, ah completely slipped my mind.”

It takes Crowley a minute to process what Aziraphale had said and another minute to realise that he’s talking about the ducks. Crowley’s stomach turns at the mention of food and his head is thick and heavy. His vessel, his corporation, his body, is devoid of feeling, emotions, nutrition, and he wonders how something so empty could possibly feel so aching. 

He hurts. And he isn’t sure where the hurt is coming from anymore. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Crowley shrugs it off. “Those ducks get fed more than what’s probably good for them anyway.” 

Aziraphale still has his hand on his knee. He radiates heat and love and comfort and security. Crowley wants nothing more than to miracle them both somewhere far, far away where there’s rain and a fireplace and have them both be under heavy covers, wrapped up in each other until the world is fixed. 

Crowley shifts in his position and Aziraphale removes his hand and Crowley wants to scream at how the ice coating his veins seems to rush towards that spot and attack it until he can no longer remember what being touched had felt like. 

His head swims in sweet, sweet treacle. Crowley feels sick but he can’t be sick because he hasn’t eaten in- What did it _matter?_ His bones were connected by shards of glass. He bites down on his lip. 

“It was something to do,” Aziraphale says pointedly and straightens up in his seat. “And it’s a nice day.”

Humming, Crowley tilts his head up to the sky. He hasn’t even realised that it’s a nice day but, he supposes, that it is. It is a very conventionally nice day. The sky is blue, the clouds are white and distant, the air smells of fresh cut grass and black coffee. The sun is blinding in its light and the wind is sharp and bitter, slicing through all the gaps of Crowley’s bones, but he guesses that most people are willing to overlook that. 

There are ducks and swans paddling through the murky waters of the lake. A squirrel runs across its bank and launches itself at the closest tree branch as a dog strains on its leash. A couple walks slowly past, elbows bumping into each other, and their hands clutch at an oily bag of chips. They’re laughing, their faces red from the wind and their hair in disarray, but their eyes are bright and their grins are wide. 

Crowley can smell the sick, acidic smell of vinegar from where he sits on the bench with Aziraphale. He stops breathing until they pass - which isn’t as dramatic a feat as one may think, considering he is a supernatural, occult entity and breathing is more of a habit than a necessity to him. One of them drops a chip by accident and Crowley watches as salt and pepper falls from it like snow falls from a tree when it’s shaken with a rolling sense of disgust. They go to pick it up when a fat pigeon swoops down and plucks it from the ground with its beak. 

His right hand had been in his lap, his left hand resting on the arm of the bench but they suddenly both shoot towards his kneecaps and he claws his fingers around the bone and he _squeezes_. He does it hard enough that he can imagine prying them away from his legs. His arms are straining, the veins of his hands prominent and stretched. 

He can’t tell if he’s breathing fast or not breathing at all. 

The couple pass, still laughing, and the pigeon is nowhere in sight. Crowley bends at his waist and shrinks in on himself, his head between his legs and his eyes forced shut behind his glasses. He’s trying to catch his breath, he’s trying to pull his hands away from his knees. He’s trying to calm his stomach, he’s trying to get a grip on the flimsy layer of reality that he lives in. 

And it’s only when a warm hand is placed on his shoulder that Crowley remembers that he hadn’t stopped time. 

A cold, damning realisation crashes over him and the roaring in his head is thick and silent. It comes in waves and Crowley can feel pieces of himself being dragged away by the tide. He doesn’t move, but his eyes are open wide and his hands loosen their grip. He’s breathing now, but it’s the deep and fast breathing of an incoming panic attack: the calm before the storm. 

He hadn’t stopped time. He hadn’t stopped time. He hadn’t stopped time. He hadn’t stopped time. _He hadn’t stopped time._

Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he stopped time as soon as he saw that chip fall, because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to cope with it? Because he knew that he would lose it and then he would worry Aziraphale and worrying Aziraphale was the last thing Crowley ever wanted to which was why he had _stopped time_ so he could panic and collect himself without the angel every knowing what had happened. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps out, his voice strained and pain laced through every syllable of his name. He can feel a vice squeezing around his throat, slicing through his lungs, slithering around his useless heart. 

The wind is cold and Crowley shivers violently. The air he breathes in his cold, everything he touches is cold and everything touching him is cold apart from Aziraphale’s hand that hasn’t moved from his shoulder. He wants to go back to somewhere warm, somewhere safe, somewhere happy and loving and he knows that he must have been to such a place before but he can’t remember it. 

He wouldn’t even know where to start looking for a place like that. 

“Lift your head, Crowley,” Aziraphale demands softly. Crowley can feel tears welling up in his eyes and he struggles in another breath and he’s about to refuse, say that moving is the last thing he is capable right now except for eating food, but it’s the use of his name that makes him pause. Aziraphale hardly ever calls him _‘Crowley’_ without first saying _‘my dear’_ or any other fond, affectionate term that he has in his vast vocabulary. 

Crowley lifts his head and lifts his hands away from his kneecaps and straightens himself and arranges himself so that he is sitting on the bench in his usual sprawl, and he’s staring at Aziraphale’s lap with a clenched jaw. The angel’s hand is still on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. He blinks away his tears furiously and chases that cool, nonchalant presence that he has always had - and he can’t find it. 

“You’re not okay, are you?” Aziraphale asks and his voice is so tender, so quiet and soft and loving that Crowley forces himself to make eye contact and-

_Breaks._

Over six thousand years of hurt and hatred, of guilt and self-loathing, of being lonely and alone, of torturing himself, of isolating himself and yet still wanting people there, of pushing people away and hating himself when they eventually left, all came to the surface. Crowley falls apart and it’s not in the delicate, emotional-breakthrough type of way - it’s experiencing every feeling you’ve never allowed yourself to feel in split seconds. 

It hurts to fall apart. Every tear is a knife in his skin, every sob is a punch to his throat, every heaving breath is a struggle, every touch is like being set on fire. Crowley thinks of Falling, of how silent it had been to be burning but mourning, and he thinks of how he is Falling Apart right now and he thinks that maybe you don’t have to be somewhere high to fall. 

Demons aren’t supposed to Fall further than Hell, and yet here he is. 

Tears are rolling down his face and falling onto the black fabric of his clothes. He’s shaking and his sobs are starting to sound more like screams. He can’t speak, he can’t even think of forming words right now and having them make sense, but he has to- he has to apologize to Aziraphale. He has to pull himself together enough so that he can say he’s sorry and he has to go back to his apartment and Fall Apart there so he doesn’t worry Aziraphale and then maybe they’ll have lunch again in a century or two- 

It’s the thought of having lunch that makes Crowley cry harder. Because he _wants_ to have lunch with Aziraphale in a century or two - or, more likely, he wants to go to a restaurant with Aziraphale and watch him eat whilst Crowley orders the entire wine list - but he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, and if he can’t do that then what is he good for? Aziraphale wants company, someone to go to lunches with, and if Crowley can’t do that then why would Aziraphale keep him around? 

He can’t set foot in a restaurant. He can’t be around all of that food, smelling all of those different smells, listening to people chew and swallow and cut their dinner apart on their plate. He can’t watch people eat, he can’t look at food even as it passes by without feeling sick. Without imagining it turning to lead in his stomach and poisoning him from the inside out. 

His stomach is burning at the thought, his organs and insides and his bones are lighting up like a match on petrol, and Crowley thinks that consuming Holy Water would be less painful than this. At least then he would know what the cause was. 

_You should never have come out today. You should have stayed at your apartment and never seen Aziraphale because now you’ve worried him. Why should he worry about you? Why should he have to worry about you? You’re not his responsibility. You’re not anyone’s responsibility. You should just leave. You should just disappear._

_You’re going to die anyway. Nobody can survive for long at the weight you’re at. Can’t you feel your organs shutting down already? It’s not cold outside. People are wearing shorts. But you’re cold. Your legs are red. Your hands shake. Your hair would be falling out if you hadn’t used a miracle to stop it from happening. Your circulation is bad and your heart is in trouble. Nobody can survive like this, not even a demon._

_You’re going to die anyway. Why not just speed it up? Right now. Come on._

_It wouldn’t take much._

Crowley has the mind of the original tempter - he knows how to tempt anyone into anything. Including himself. He knew what words to say and how to say them, he knew what to do. He knows now what he has to do. 

He has to leave Aziraphale before he makes more of a mess of things. He has to leave for good and he’s getting up right now, this very instant except that… His legs still aren’t moving and he is still crying. And he isn’t even sure if he wants to leave or stay. 

He just knows that he has to do _something_. He can’t just stay here forever, pouring his heart out without using his words. 

“Oh, my _dear,”_ Aziraphale’s expression looks as heartbroken as Crowley feels and he shuts his eyes because he can’t bear to look at the sadness in Aziraphale’s eyes, the sadness that _he_ caused. He feels arms weave around his slight frame, warmth blossoming where they touch him, and he’s being pulled closer to Aziraphale and hugged tightly. Held tightly. 

And Crowley can’t help but think about how well they fit together. How Crowley could rest his head perfectly on Aziraphale’s shoulder, how they could both wrap their arms around each other and Crowley’s legs could fold under himself so he could practically sit in Aziraphale’s lap. They had all the time in the world to stay there, like that, but Crowley needed to move before something else tremendously embarrassing happened and the angel would never be able to look at him the same way ever again. 

But he couldn’t- he didn’t. Crowley doesn’t have enough energy left to care about anything else except loosening the ache in his chest and putting a leash back on his mind and pull it tight like pulling the ribbons of a corset. 

_It won’t take much to die. Just a bit of Holy Water. Just a bit. Just a drop._

Crowley closes his eyes and presses himself harder against Aziraphale, who has started running his hands through the demon’s burnished copper hair. He doesn’t think he wants to die for good - he doesn’t want to douse himself in Holy Water, give himself an injury so grave that there would be no possible way of recovering from it. 

He just wants to go away for a while. He just wants to punish himself a little bit more. 

Someone is walking past their bench. Crowley can hear footsteps, the sound of shoes crunching against the graveled paths of St James’s Park, and he winces despite himself, knowing how he must look right now. Clinging to Aziraphale like he’s his lifeline, breaking down and falling apart, and muttering nonsense under his breath and he’s sure that he’s losing his grip on his mortal form. 

He’s sure that there are claws, talons, attached to a few of his fingers. He’s sure that his eyes, beneath his sunglasses, are fully yellow. His teeth might even be fanged, he isn’t sure. 

The footsteps pause. “Oh,” Comes a high, feminine voice. Crowley knows it’s directed towards him and Aziraphale and he tries to stifle his breakdown for a second, to show that he really is okay, but he can’t. He can’t. “Is he alright?”

Aziraphale’s hand lifts momentarily from Crowley’s hair and the demon is sure that he’s gesturing and mouthing that yes, he’ll be fine. Thank you. The footsteps carry on and Aziraphale returns his hand. 

“Come, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs by Crowley’s ear. “I can miracle us back to the bookshop. Do you think you can manage that?” 

Crowley can’t reply but he tightens his grip around Aziraphale and feels a gust of wind lift his clothes and his hair and suddenly he’s encased in warmth and the familiar smell of dusty books and tea and he’s sure there’s music playing from somewhere. He’s in the bookshop. With Aziraphale. 

The angel stands slowly and, to Crowley, it feels like he’s being torn away by an invisible foe. He makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, involuntarily, and tries to move closer to Aziraphale. The world is blurred by salty tears and Crowley’s stomach hurts. Not the aching hunger type of hurt that he’s used to and not the clenching, tight pain of nausea that he is also used to. 

This is something different. His entire body is burning and aching, tight and heavy. He feels like a coiled snake that can’t uncoil. Tight and trapped within oneself. With his talons out, Crowley starts to scratch at his hands. 

_You’re not okay, are you?_

_You’re not okay._

_Are you?_

_You’re not okay. You’re not okay. Are you?_

_Just say you are._

_It’s too late now. He’s seen how not okay you are._

_You’ve ruined everything._

_Everything. You’ve wrecked all of this because you’re selfish. Aziraphale will leave you. You know that._

Black blood is running from the cuts Crowley is creating on his hands. The pain doesn’t register, though he knows it’s there. He’s watching things unfold from far away; he’s detached from reality, untethered and lost. He’s underwater. He’s drowning. He can’t _breathe-_

Crowley has enough sanity left in him to move his hands to his lap so he can continue to tear the skin from them without making a mess on Aziraphale’s carpet. He isn’t sure if he’s still crying or not. He doesn’t know where Aziraphale is. 

His throat is closing up. He’s shaking and-

“Crowley!” Aziraphale comes rushing back into his vision, dropping to his knees by the sofa that Crowley is sitting on and wrapping warm fingers around Crowley’s wrists to tug his talons away from his hands. “What’re you doing?” 

He doesn’t know, but he knows it’s wrong. _All this just because you wouldn’t eat some fucking food._ “I’m sorry,” Crowley gasps out, the first words he’s spoken in a while and he hadn’t expected his voice to sound so… normal. “I’m so sorry.” _That’s better,_ he thinks. _A raw, ravaged voice that hurts to use._

Aziraphale holds Crowley’s bleeding hands in his own. Crowley’s watching in horror as his black, demonic, tainted blood drops onto Aziraphale’s clean hands. “Why?” He asks, softly enough that Crowley retracts his talons. He can see the veins his hands like the roots of trees. One of them is split in half, hanging out in a gash on his hand. His blood looks like ink. It looks like tar. 

If Aziraphale is disgusted by the state of Crowley’s hands, he doesn’t show it. He encases them in his own and squeezes gently and Crowley can feel his hands being put back together again. Like sewing loosely and then suddenly pulling the thread tight so the pieces of fabric connect. His broken vein repairs itself and Crowley can feel the blood rushing back through it. He can feel his skin tugging itself back together, his bones hiding back underneath the layers of protective muscle and tissue. 

The blood disappears - both from his hands and from Aziraphale’s. 

They don’t let go of each other even after the angel is finished healing the demon. “I don’t know,” Crowley says dully, distantly. He realises that he’s stopped crying. 

“What happened here?” Aziraphale raises his eyes to meet Crowley’s. “Tell me.” 

There’s no clear answer to that. Crowley’s mind is sick and it has been sick since the Fall and he’s just been getting progressively, impressively, worse for the last six thousand years. Nobody’s ever noticed before. Not even when Crowley was screaming for help and it felt like he was screaming in a soundproof box that only he knew was there. And if they had ever noticed something, all it had taken was for Crowley to say he was fine and then they believed him. 

Everyone had been so quick to accept that Crowley was okay. And he supposed it was his own fault for pushing people away when they said they cared. Aziraphale had been one of those people and it had taken this, to get to rock bottom, to get people to realise that Crowley was as far from fine as he was from Heaven. 

“I don’t know,” Crowley says again shakily. “I just… Don’t like myself very much.” 

It’s the first time he’s ever said it aloud to anyone before. It’s like unlocking a gate and then Crowley’s mouth his moving of its own accord, his voice saying things he’d never thought he would say and he’s speaking so fast and saying so much that he isn’t sure if Aziraphale can even follow. He can’t stop. 

“I don’t like myself. At all. This is all my fault. Everything wrong with the world, angel? It’s my fault. If I hadn’t Fallen then I wouldn’t have become a demon and if I hadn’t become a demon then I wouldn’t have been the one to tempt Eve in the Garden and if I hadn’t done that then humanity wouldn’t be damned and maybe people wouldn’t die and maybe people wouldn’t experience pain or grief or hatred or any negative emotion ever. Maybe people would experience love without having to worry that it might someday come to an end. Maybe so many species wouldn’t be extinct, maybe the world wouldn’t be so polluted, maybe the stars would look as bright now as they did in Eden. But none of that matters because none of that would have happened if I had just… Never been created in the first place. 

And I want to punish myself. I want to die slowly and painfully and that’s why I started this whole thing but now I don’t… It’s too far gone. If I were human, I would have died sixty years ago,” his voice is tight, “don’t you know that? I’m dead. I’m dead already. It’s too late to save me and now I’ve worried you for nothing and I should just go back to my apartment and wait for however long it takes for this corporation to discoporate so you can enjoy your life without me ruining it all.”

Crowley’s shoulders are heaving. This is the most he’s said in months, years, and every word is a struggle. But he has to get through it. His lungs are like sandbags and every word, every breath, is another slash to them, leaking the sand out. He doesn’t know what will happen when they empty. 

"There’s no recovery from this. It’s not just a mental disorder anymore, Aziraphale. This is a _lifestyle_. I want to see it through and no, I’m not okay, but I don’t want to be okay. I want to be ruined and wrecked. I don’t want to be saved and I’m not worth saving so just… Save your love for someone else.”

“You could get a new corporation,” Aziraphale says after a while, quietly and without looking at him. “A new body.”

And because he’s tired, because he’s hurting, because he’s angry at himself and at the world he ruined, Crowley starts to cry again. But he isn’t sad. “It’s not my body that’s ill, Aziraphale!” He screams louder than he’s ever screamed before. He’s breathing heavily, too heavily, and the world is white and spinning. “It’s my mind and it isn’t ever going to get better! Don’t you _see?”_

Crowley is tempted to snap his fingers and remove every miracle he’s ever placed on his form so that Aziraphale can see. Can see how his bones move under his skin. How his veins can be traced and look as though they can be picked up with a pair of sharp tweezers. He wants Aziraphale to see how sunken his eyes are, how dark the circles under them are. How sharp and thin his face has become, how his skin looks like it’s barely clinging to his bones. He wants to show how thin and brittle his hair has become, how fast his heart rate is. How you can see every slow beat of his heart under his skin. His body is covered in goosebumps, his lips are permanently tinged purple and blue. He’s covered in bruises and his skin is dry and red from poor circulation and yellow from dehydration. 

He wants to show how broken he really is. But he doesn’t. He just stands there on shaking legs, watching Aziraphale watching him. 

“All this time,” the angel speaks so quietly that Crowley can barely hear him, “all this time you’ve felt like this?” Crowley nods wordlessly, not trusting his voice. “And you haven’t said anything?”

_“How could I?”_

Aziraphale is silent. Crowley sits back down on the sofa because he knows that he won’t be able to hold himself up much longer. He thinks that today might finally be the day he discorporates. All the time of pushing his body to its limits and finally, he could be done. Crowley puts his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands so Aziraphale can’t see the tears that are still rolling down his features. 

“Do you… Do you want help?”

 _“No,”_ Crowley says sharply. Because of course he does. Because just because he knows that he is sick, he doesn’t mean that he wants help. He wants to revel in this sickness because it’s the only thing he’s ever known, the only thing that’s kept him relatively sane all of these years. And without it then where is he? 

“Okay,” Aziraphale nods. “Then I won’t help you.”

“Good.” 

“Yes, I think so.”

Crowley’s heart is cracking. He’s surprised that he can’t hear it because he can feel a physical crack, can feel the breeze that flows through the broken part. He swallows and breathes deeply. _What have you done? You’ve ruined everything and for what? Even if you do discorporate, Downstairs will give you a new body and then you’ll have to face Aziraphale again. After all you’ve done to him. All you’ve put him through._

“Do you want a cup of tea, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, standing slowly. 

“Please help me,” Crowley whispers silently against the palm of his hands. Because he may hate himself. He may want to die. He may want to punish himself so severely that he never fully recovers. 

But he can’t lose Aziraphale. And if he dies then Aziraphale won’t forgive him. And Crowley can’t leave Aziraphale on Earth whilst he’s in Hell for however long it takes him to get a new body. 

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale asks from the doorway to the backroom where the kettle is. “Did you say something?” 

Crowley pushes his glasses up into his hair and removes his hands from his face. He looks at Aziraphale and shows everything he’s feeling. All the hurt, the pain, the hatred, the trust. The downtrodden hope that he has always carried with him and lost somewhere through the years. “Please help me,” the demon says again, no more loudly than he had done before. 

“Did you ever think I wouldn’t?” Aziraphale is by his side, pulling him close with one arm. “You wily serpent, my love. There is never a chance that I would ever leave you to… I would never leave you like this.” 

Crowley brings his knees to his chest and hugs them close. His heart is slower, his breathing steadier. He sniffs and… His head is quiet. For the first time in so long, it’s finally quiet. There’s nobody there to tell him how awful he is. He moves closer to Aziraphale. “I’m sorry.”

 _“I’m_ sorry. I should have seen how much you were hurting sooner.” 

“Don’t do that,” Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, his serpentine eyes on full display. “Please don’t do that.”

The kettle clicks, though Crowley can’t remember Aziraphale actually boiling it. “We’ll figure this out, Crowley. I promise you.” 

Crowley closes his eyes and, within seconds, he’s asleep. Resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and breathing evenly. Aziraphale smiles sadly at him and kisses Crowley’s hair softly. 

If Crowley’s hated himself since Eden then Aziraphale has to prove that he’s been loved since Eden, too. And that’s exactly what he’ll do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long and probably doesn't live up to your expectations; I was hospitalized due to my own ED and have had to leave early due to the COVID-19 outbreak. I'm not self-isolating for the next 12 weeks so updates should be a bit more regular, both on this series and my other works. This marks the end of the first installment of this series but it will follow Crowley's recovery and past traumas due to this in any follow-ups. I can't say when the next update of this will be because although I love it and find it very therapeutic, it's also a sore subject for me personally. 
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you for all the sweet comments -and the sweetness in general from all of you for reading/giving kudos/bookmarking/subscribing. It means the world to me and I'm so, so thankful. I hope you liked this chapter and I'll see you in the next work :D
> 
> Love you all. Please stay safe, my loves!
> 
> Xoxo.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been missing in action for a few weeks and that's because I relapsed with my eating disorder badly. I'm sorry for that - I'm currently in the middle of recovery and wanted to write so, in the spirit of bad habits, I'm torturing Crowley by projecting onto him. This will be a series and I have the first two works planned out already - I can't say how often updates will be on this because I'm sure that some parts will be hard/triggering for me to write but I had to write it. I hope you guys like this <3
> 
> Also, my other works will be updated soon! Wonderwall will probably be updated sooner than The Long Way Home because it's easier for me to write so keep an eye out for that. 
> 
> Love you all,  
> Xoxo.


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